


Fate, Destiny, and Burned Cupcakes

by MissCrazyWriter321



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: And Rufus just wants a snack, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Flynn isn't as much of a disaster as he normally is, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Love Confessions, Lucy should stay out of kitchens, Self-Doubt, accidental confessions, midnight baking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 13:00:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15001418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissCrazyWriter321/pseuds/MissCrazyWriter321
Summary: She can’t meet his eyes when she speaks. “My mother told me I was destined to take over Rittenhouse.”





	Fate, Destiny, and Burned Cupcakes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PrairiePirate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrairiePirate/gifts).



> See, I've written a lot of fluff lately, and apparently my brain rebelled, because frankly? This one hurt. I've had a scene in my head for a few days, and I knew it would be painful, but writing it out was even more painful. I stayed up until midnight writing just so that I could get to the happy ending.
> 
> Gifting to PrairiePirate, because she said she wanted to see Garcy doing bunker chores together. I'm not sure this counts, but they're doing dishes together!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing but my ideas.

Her first time baking cupcakes in years, and she almost burns them all.

Typical, really.

Lucy groans, wiping a few strands of hair from her face, further smearing the flour dusting her forehead. At least Flynn showed up in time to catch them, she thinks.

She’d been so lost in thought that she hadn’t noticed the timer going off, and now, all she has to show for her work is a dozen charred cupcakes, and a complete mess.

See, this is why she doesn’t bake.

“May I?” Flynn’s voice is soft, nonthreatening, and she glances at him curiously. His hand lingers in the air above one of the cakes, waiting for her permission. She scoffs, gesturing for him to go ahead.

“You realize they’re probably awful, right?” He shrugs, picks one up, and carefully removes the paper cover.

At the first bite, he grimaces, swallows hard, and pulls a smile that is all too forced. “Very… Unique,” he announces, before taking another small bite.

She can’t help it. She laughs.

“You don’t have to eat it,” she points out.

He brushes her off with a wave of his hand. “Nonsense. It’s not…” He considers a moment, maybe searching for something that is honest without being insulting, before settling on, “It’s not as bad as that stew Rufus made us last month.”

She shudders involuntarily at the memory. They’d all been sick for a week after that particular dish.   
“That’s a relief.”

He finishes off the cupcake, and while he makes no move to take another, she has to give him credit for finishing it at all. She’s pretty sure she’s going to end up dumping these without even trying them.

“So,” he begins, in that deliberately casual way that tells her he’s about to pry, “what had you so distracted that you forgot about your midnight baking? Not really like you.”

“I was just… Thinking,” she answers slowly. She instinctively knows that she’s going to tell him, but she isn’t sure where to start.

He leans against the counter, watching her carefully. “About?” His tone is cautious, and it’s clear that she can tell him to back off, and he will. This is just an opportunity for her to talk, if she wants one.

“Fate. Destiny.” She shrugs. “My future.”

“Awfully heavy thoughts for the middle of the night,” he points out. “You know… I’ve heard that heavy thoughts are easier to carry when you aren’t carrying them alone.”

She blinks.

“Where did you hear that? A fortune cookie?”

His lips twitch, and he shrugs, in a way that says ‘probably,’ and also that he knows she’s avoiding the question.

The kitchen is still a mess, and it’s easier to focus on that than his patient expression, so she sets to work, gathering up scattered dishes. When she looks back, he’s rinsing off the counter, and she takes a breath, collecting her thoughts.

“It’s just…” He doesn’t turn to face her, but she can tell he’s listening, even as he continues to clean.   
“When you first showed me that journal, I was… I was terrified.”

He falters slightly, before clearing his throat, and responding. “Well, I was holding a gun on you.” His voice is thick with regret. “That does tend to induce terror.”

“No, it wasn’t that.” She stops until he looks at her, suddenly needing him to understand. “Even back then, I knew you wouldn’t hurt me.” It’s clear he doesn’t believe her, so she reaches out briefly, resting her hand on his arm. “The things I said to you…” They both wince at the memory, but for different reasons, she suspects. Her calling him a psychopath. Accusing him of murdering his family. Her stomach turns, but she soldiers on, determined to make him listen. “I wouldn’t have said them if I thought you were going to hurt me.”

He exhales slowly, and nods. She’s not sure he’s convinced, but it’s a start. Releasing him, she turns back to her dishes. The sink is full now, and she grabs a rag, starting to scrub. “But the journal… I knew it was my handwriting. And that scared me to death. Because it said I was going to work with you one day, that I was going to… Be like you.” She can’t look at him now. “I was so scared that I was going to become some kind of… Monster.”

She hears him draw in a sharp breath, but he doesn’t respond, and she continues. “But now, I’m here. Working with you. Being with you.” She realizes too late that there are many ways he could take that last bit, but decides that she honestly doesn’t care. “And I don’t feel like a monster. I don’t think you’re a monster. I think we’re doing the right thing. Just like the journal said I would.”

A glance back tells her he’s still wiping the counter, even though it’s definitely clean by now. “Give me a hand with these?” There’s a long pause, but then he moves, coming to stand by her. Taking a rag, he sets to work, drying the pile she’s making. He isn’t looking at her, but she can see the war of emotions dancing across his face, and winces. Maybe she should have thought this through.

“I thought I was destined to become some horrible thing, but instead, I just… Did what came naturally. And the thing that seemed horrible suddenly seemed… Right. I was destined to do it, but…” She’s rambling, she realizes, and it may or may not make sense. “I still chose it.”

“I-” He hesitates, clearly unsure of how to help, and she knows it’s time to get to the point.

She can’t meet his eyes when she speaks. “My mother told me I was destined to take over Rittenhouse.”

Silence.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees his hold on a dish falter, though he catches it before it can come crashing into the sink. Impressive, really.

He takes a deep breath, then another, grasping for words that don’t come. “Lucy…”

“And my first reaction was to say no, never. I’ll never be like them. But then I realized that was exactly how I reacted to you.”

“But the journal,” he points out, relief evident. He’s found a lifeline, and he’s grasping it with both hands. “It says-”

“You mean the journal that told you to bring Emma back?” That shuts him up, but she isn’t done. “The journal that never mentioned that Jessica was Rittenhouse? The journal that erased my sister from existence?”

She’s panting by the end of her spiel, and her hands are trembling. Still, she can’t bring herself too look at him.

“I’m so sorry about that,” he says, aching and ashamed. She shakes her head.

“It’s not your fault. You didn’t know.” She finally turns to him, as he opens his mouth to protest. She quickly adds, “But I did.”

He frowns, and she continues. “Or, I will. Me-future me-she knew that giving you that journal would wipe Amy from existence. But she still did it.” It might be the first time she’s ever accepted his story so fully, but she’s tired of denying it when it’s so obviously true. “And if I can become someone who’s willing to erase her own sister… What’s to stop me from becoming a monster like them?”

Again, he seems at a loss, and miserable for it. He’d do anything to fix it if he could, she knows. But there’s nothing he can do for this.

Unless….

An idea occurs to her, as she hands him the last dish, and sets the water draining. “I need you to promise me something.”

To her surprise, he doesn’t immediately agree. Instead, he looks at her, studying her face in a way that’s all too knowing, as if he’s seeing right through her. Then, his expression tightens. “No.”

“No?” She can’t remember the last time he’s refused her anything.

“No.” He turns away from her abruptly, and starts putting away the dishes. She stands there, frozen, for several seconds, just watching him. Her mind is reeling from his sudden change in behavior.

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask you,” she points out, and he tenses.

“You were going to ask me to kill you if you ever joined Rittenhouse.” His voice is tight, controlled, even as it falters on the word 'kill.’ “No.”

It should probably surprise her that he knows what she’s thinking, but the truth is, he was right all those months ago; sometimes, he really does know her better than she knows herself. “Look, it’s just to be safe, okay? I’m not planning to join Rittenhouse or anything, but if something happens, I need to know that someone will make the call.”

It’s smart. Practical. Necessary, even. If there’s one thing these months at war have taught her, it’s that sometimes, things get messy, and you need a backup plan.

“Lucy, I said no.” Some of his control is slipping. She can hear it, in the tremor of his voice.

“Why not?”

“Because.”

Frustration bubbles up in her, and she snaps. “That’s not an answer! Flynn, I don’t get it. After everything Rittenhouse has done to you? They took two women that you loved!”

It’s a low blow, and she knows it, but she doesn’t have time to regret it, because suddenly, he’s turning on her, eyes blazing. “I won’t let them take another one!”

They’re both panting, staring at each other in the low light, dishes forgotten. His words echo through her mind, like schoolchildren at the Grand Canyon.

Another one.

Another woman he loves?

No.

Surely he would have said something.

(“Why are you here,” she asked him once, and his expression was wide and vulnerable. Whatever he was about to say was stolen by Wyatt’s entrance, and for the first time in awhile, she lets herself wonder what was on the tip of his tongue.)

He swallows hard, the anger draining from him in an instant. Suddenly, he seems very tired, as if he’s been carrying the world on his shoulders. Maybe he has, and she’s just now noticing. “Lucy, I’d do almost anything you asked me to.” The words are soft, without his usual flair, and she knows that they’re completely sincere. “And if you asked me to stay as far from you as possible…” The thought seems to pain him. “Even that I would do.”

She doesn’t want him to leave. That much, at least, she’s sure of, even as the world seems to sway around her.

“Almost anything,” he repeats, a hint of a sad smile playing at his lips, “But not hurt you. Never again. So please…” He closes his eyes briefly, as if the thought of refusing her anything is devastating to him, before finishing quietly. “Don’t ask.”

With that, he opens his eyes, head bowed slightly, waiting for her verdict. Her judgement, maybe. Her rejection. Even her anger. The curtain has fallen away, and she can see exactly how strong her hold over him is. How easy it would be for her to break him.

She doesn’t want to break him.

Moving slowly, cautiously, she steps forward. Once. Twice. He tenses, but makes no move to pull away. Almost of its own accord, her hand comes to rest on his chest, over his heart. He goes completely still, and she wonders if he’s afraid of frightening her.

He hasn’t frightened her in a long time.

“Okay,” she says, a bit belatedly, and he sags in relief, the tension draining from him. It strikes her suddenly that that was what he was afraid of. Not that she would reject him-she’s starting to think that he considers that inevitable-but that she would keep pushing him to make that promise.

To kill her.

(She’s still terrified of becoming what her mother said she would be. But just now, she’s far more terrified of hurting this man who has come to mean so much to her. She might not love him, not yet, but she knows she easily could. He’s probably her best friend in the world, and she trusts him completely. She might not love him, but if she lets herself, she will.)

“Garcia?” A single word, and he meets her eyes, impossibly gentle.

“Hm?”

She moves on instinct, wrapping her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest. After a surprised second, he returns the embrace, one hand coming to rest on her back, the other cupping the back of her head. They breathe in unison, letting the intensity of the last few minutes fall away as they hold onto each other.

Security envelopes her as she stays there, his scent surrounding her, his warmth against her. When she started equating him with safety, she isn’t sure, but she never wants to leave.

She doesn’t remember moving, but suddenly, she’s tilting her head up to face him. His breath stutters, just for a moment, and he matches her movements, leaning down. Slowly, cautiously, as if he expects her to pull away at any second. Her nose brushes his, and she draws her right hand up, cupping his cheek, feeling the stubble under her fingertips. His breath is warm against her face, and he pauses just before his lips touch hers, clearly waiting for her to take the final leap.

Giving her a chance to back out, even now. But she doesn’t want to back out.

Her eyes flutter closed as she exhales, closing the gap.

“Hey, did someone make cupcakes?”

Immediately, she’s stumbling back, turning to face the speaker: Rufus, who has apparently wandered into the kitchen looking for a late-night snack. He turns from her ruined baked goods to her, as if noticing her and Flynn for the first time. “You know, they’re a little…” He falters, either because he’s trying to avoid offending her, or because he’s taking in her and Flynn’s flushed faces and shaky breathing for the first time.

Flynn, of course, takes full advantage of his hesitance. “Lucy’s,” he announces, accent a bit thicker than usual. “She made them. A woman of many talents, truly. You have to try one.”

“Er…” Rufus flounders, eyeing the cupcakes as if he expects them to jump up and bite him, instead of the other way around. Lucy takes pity on him.

“It’s fine, Rufus. You don’t have to eat them.” A smile tugs at her lips in spite of herself.

“No, no, it’s-” He grabs one, taking a quick bite, and winces. “Great. You know, completely… Uh…”

“Burned?” She suggests, grinning.

“Better than the stew,” he answers, with as much diplomacy as he can muster. Still, he makes no move to finish the cupcake.

Flynn, of course, can’t keep quiet. “Well, that goes without saying.”

Rufus raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m sorry, do you want to take kitchen duty for me next week?”

“Well, I would, but I’m going to be a bit busy.”

As if any of them actually have the luxury of being busy, unless Rittenhouse jumps.

Clearly, Rufus has the same thought. “Busy doing what?”

“Ah… Not that?” He shrugs, as if it were obvious.

This could go on all night if she let it, and honestly, she’s tempted to let it. She’s smiling, her previous concerned all but forgotten, pushed to the back of her mind. Their bickering steadies her, oddly enough.  
Still, she can feel the barest touch of Flynn’s lips in her memory, and she finds herself unwilling to leave it at that.

“I’m going to bed,” she announces, glancing at Flynn pointedly. Too late, she wonders if he’ll read too much into that. She’s rushed things before, and has no intentions of doing so again.

He blinks, then smiles, nodding in acknowledgment. “Goodnight, Rufus,” he says, in that strange mix of sarcasm and sincerity that is uniquely his, before following her out of the room. If Rufus has questions about what’s happening between them, (and she’s sure he does,) he doesn’t ask them. Not then, anyway, and she couldn’t be more grateful. She isn’t ready to talk about this.

Turning to Flynn-or maybe she should get used to thinking of him as Garcia-she clears her throat, suddenly nervous. “I was just hoping you could… Walk me to my room? And not any further, just… To the door…” She trails off, face burning, and an amused smile flickers across his face.

“Lucy.” His hand settles on her shoulder, firm and reassuring. “I wasn’t expecting anything else.”

Relief floods her, and she smiles sheepishly in return.

The rest of the walk to her room, they’re silent, lost in their own thoughts, but it’s comfortable. All too soon, they’ve arrived at the room she now shares with Jiya again. Initially, Rufus had protested giving up a room with his girlfriend, but with Jessica gone, there’s really no reason for anyone to have to sleep on the couch.

They linger by the door for a moment, before he clears his throat, turning to her. “For what it’s worth…” He’s shy but utterly sincere. “You’re nothing like Rittenhouse. You are-” He falters, mouth moving but no words coming out. Whatever compliments are flickering through his mind, he settles for a quiet admission. “You’re the best person so know.“ By the end, it’s almost a whisper.

She wants to answer, to thank him, to tell him that he’s a good person, too. She wants to tell him that he’s her best friend, and the person she trusts most in the world. But the words stick in her throat, and he glances away, uncertain.

"Goodnight,” He says softly, a gentle smile on his face. He steps away, like the respectful gentleman he is, and she moves before she can talk herself out of it. Grabbing his soft shirt, she tugs him back down toward her, this time leaving no chance for interruptions. She brushes her lips over his, and after a stunned second, he sighs into her mouth, tilting his head, threading his fingers through her hair.

It’s only a few moments before she’s pulling away, inexplicably giddy. Of all the ways she imagined this night going, this wasn’t even in the top ten, but she can’t regret it. It feels natural, right, like this is where they’ve been going all along.

Like destiny.

“Goodnight, Garcia,” she tells him, a little breathless, and he positively lights up. His smile is warm and full, and she thinks she could stare at it all night, especially when it’s aimed at her like that. He seems so happy, she almost pulls him back for another kiss, but instead, she settles for waving as he walks away.

Jiya is fast asleep when Lucy finally closes the door behind her, settling into her own bed. Just as well; Lucy doesn’t exactly feel like talking tonight. Her mind is whirling with the events of the past hour, at war with her previous thoughts.

Fate.

Garcia Flynn loves her.

Destiny.

He won’t kill her, even if she turns. Even if she becomes the thing he hates most in the world.

Rittenhouse. Her mother.

She kissed him, and she never wants to stop.

Her future.

Somewhere along the way, she’s started to fall for Garcia Flynn.

(She doesn’t sleep much that night.)

**Author's Note:**

> So, there you have it. Fun fact: I have no idea if Lucy's poor baking/cooking skills are canon, or just widely-accepted fanon, and I don't currently have access to all of the episodes to find out. Anyone out there know? I know that her sandwich for JFK was questionable, but she was heartbroken and recovering from a fever, so I'm not sure that counts.
> 
> In any case, thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
